


The Sword of Themis

by Caly_X



Series: Sword and Scales [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: "F- off!" vampire cameo, Action, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cover Art, Gen, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-15 22:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21026057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caly_X/pseuds/Caly_X
Summary: Who is qualified to wield the sword of justice?The surviving members of the hanza reunite in Novigrad under less than optimal circumstances: Dandelion needs Geralt's help, Geralt needs Regis's help but doesn't want it, and Regis needs help but doesn't know where to get it.(Assumes the Blood and Wine ending in which Dettlaff dies and Regis has to leave Toussaint.)





	1. Chapter 1

It's a dark, moonless night, a sober night. I'm walking on soft, mossy ground. The cool night air smells good. Leaves brush against my face; I reach out and push them out of the way.

My boot hits smooth paving stones. No more leaves in my face. Castle ruins in the middle of the wood? It's strangely illumined here: there's a soft glow of bluish light barely reflecting off some still figures—statues? Here's a statue of a woman. There's something, or rather someone, prone at her feet.

I approach the statue. I see the profile of the face. The eyes—no, there are no eyes. Only a blindfold. One hand holds something. It's a familiar instrument for an alchemist or a herbalist: scales. These are fine ones, much better than the ones I use.

There's something in the other hand. I have to go around the other side to see. Ah, a sword. It looks heavy for her; she's holding it such that its tip rests on the ground.

"Themis?" The name escapes me involuntarily.

The statue turns and faces me. Surprise nails me to the ground, and I sense her blindfolded eyes looking me up and down. A slight breeze slinks past my cheek like a cat, and the scales quiver with the movement of the air. I hear a loud scraping sound: she's lifted the sword off the ground. I am about to turn and run when I realize she's holding it with the hilt, not the point, towards me.

My arm is compelled to move by some force beyond my control. I grasp the sword by the handle and am surprised by how well it molds to my grip and how beautifully balanced the weight of the sword seems. As if the sword were made just for me.

The statue—Themis, I suppose—seems to regard me with approval. I feel as if she's chosen me for some task. She points to the silhouette beside her feet.

It's Dettlaff.

\--

Regis hit the back of his head against the tree trunk as his head involuntarily jerked back upon his nineteenth return to the waking world since he had sat down under the large, shady tree to rest twenty minutes ago. It was noon and the air was hot, humid, and stifling. He traveled in mist form best at night, so the daylight hours were given over to walking to stretch his physical legs, gathering sustenance, and trying to rest. He badly wanted to sleep in a cool, comfortable bed under a solid roof, but his route, meticulously planned to avoid any place he might encounter another higher vampire, was notably short of such places as inns and cemeteries—and populated places in general.

He tried to swallow away the unease that crept up into his throat at the thought that the area to which he was headed was quite densely populated, and that his final destination was a cabaret and tavern. It would be worth it, he told himself, to see the poet again. He would ask Dandelion how that noble head of his was doing, whether the faint scar of the war wound that Regis had patched up was having the desired effect on the ladies. He would ask him how he was doing in general: Geralt had briefly told Regis about Dandelion acquiring the establishment now known as the Chameleon in Novigrad, and that Dandelion seemed to be seriously seeing a trobairitz named Priscilla. Given that Dandelion's purportedly very serious affair with Anna Henrietta hadn't exactly lasted, Regis doubted that he would meet the fair Priscilla by the time he reached Dandelion in Novigrad.

Novigrad... Regis sighed and idly twiddled a twig between his fingers. He was counting on the vehement anti-non-human and anti-magic stance of King Radovid being sufficiently irritating to higher vampires that most of them would have moved elsewhere. Yes, they could utterly subjugate this world if they wanted to, but most higher vampires didn't want to. Most higher vampires just wanted to live their lives unmolested and unbothered by hysterical humans trying to stake them and shove garlic down their throats.

Since Regis was anathema to his kind and any higher vampire was allowed to take his life, he had to take further special measures to ensure his own safety. The south, the Nilfgaardian Empire, had seemed a good place to hide out from other vampires when he had first set out from Toussaint, but when he began having the dreams—more precisely, the one dream—he found that he couldn't stay put, even though he was safe in Vicovaro. He was going crazy from the self-imposed isolation, which he wouldn't have ever believed could drive him crazy, but it made sense: he'd spent the time before Stygga with Geralt's hanza and enjoyed their companionship, and he'd spent the time after Stygga with Dettlaff...

The snap of the twig breaking between his fingers sounded dull in the thick air. "Why," he wondered aloud, "does the dream always stop right where it does and go no further?" After all, he knew how it all ended.

\--

"Are you sure you have enough food for the road?" Marlene asked, the papery skin between her eyebrows scrunching into a close cluster of fine vertical lines.

"More than enough, thanks to you." said Geralt as he clapped a hand on a heavily laden saddlebag. Roach twitched an ear. "Could you ask B.-B. to come over one last time?"

"Right away. Come home in one piece, please." She spread out her arms.

"I'll try my best." He answered her invitation to an embrace and tried to take its almost maternal warmth into his memory, to last him for the long road ahead. She patted his back, withdrew, smiled, and went off to locate the busy majordomo of Corvo Bianco.

Geralt pulled out a letter and read it over once more.

_Dandelion, I got your letter and I'm setting out for Novigrad now. I'll try to arrive before this letter. There's no time for correspondence if your suspicions are founded. And if it turns out to be nothing, the work of a copycat, treat me to something at a restaurant that tops Marlene's cooking. Meanwhile, make sure there's someone with Priscilla at all times. Not sure about your idea of getting Dudu to be a decoy, though. Take care. Geralt. _

He looked up to see Barnabas-Basil Foulty approaching, apparently unhurriedly, but in fact rather quickly. The majordomo had mastered the art of dignified yet efficient movement.

"What does sir require?" he asked Geralt.

"This letter to be sent. It's already addressed." Geralt handed the letter to Barnabas-Basil. "Thanks, B.-B. Really appreciate you taking care of everything."

The majordomo bowed his head slightly. "Sir will take care of himself?"

Geralt was a little surprised at the question, which was uncharacteristic of Barnabas-Basil. He had no idea where Marlene and B.-B. had gotten the idea that he was in particularly great danger on this trip, since he hadn't discussed it in detail with them. "Of course. Farewell."

"Safe travels."

They were right to be concerned, of course.

Now for one last thing. Geralt smoothed Roach's mane with one hand, as the mare was getting a little impatient to set off, and looked up at the unkindness of ravens in a nearby tree. "I know you're watching me. Make yourself useful and send a message to him, will you?"

It surprised Geralt when one raven actually swooped down, landed on the horn of the saddle, and looked at him with its beady black eyes.

It surprised the raven when Geralt took out a tiny roll of paper and a piece of string.

\--

Regis chuckled. "So he tried to tie a note to your leg?" The raven cawed. "Yes, yes. I send him letters incognito from time to time, but he doesn't have an address for me. At least he tried to communicate. Thank you for your patience." The raven plucked a berry from Regis's open hand and flew off.

Popping the rest of the foraged berries into his mouth, Regis smiled as he pictured the witcher solemnly dictating the contents of his note to a listening raven. Smart birds, they were. Geralt was lucky there happened to be one right there that actually understood Common Speech. Then the smile faded and was replaced by tightly pressed lips as Regis recalled Geralt's message.

_Dandelion asked for my help and I'm headed to Novigrad, though it may not turn out to be anything at all. You said you were going to try to see Dandelion in your last letter. It would be best if you waited until I understand the situation._

Well, Geralt, going it alone again, I see, Regis thought. You're trying to keep me in the dark; you're trying to spare me. Very well. When Dandelion asks for Geralt's help, he feels that he's in mortal danger, and it's something only a witcher, not a political ally, can take care of. Probably a monster, then. It may not turn out to be anything, but if it does, Geralt wants me to wait. He sent a raven, something he's never attempted before, to tell me that. He believes that I could be in danger if he is right about the nature of the threat.

"A higher vampire," Regis said aloud with a grimace, startling some nearby birds foraging in the same bushes he'd gotten the berries from. He stood up and gathered up his black woollen cloak from the grass. "And it seems logical to the witcher, of course, that it is better to face one without the help of another higher vampire..."


	2. Chapter 2

Nobody noticed that it was a little mistier around Tretogor Gate at midnight. Nobody noticed the blue tinge to the mist that was inching along the bridge by the gate at foot level. And nobody noticed the blue tinge stop and shudder momentarily before the impaled and burnt bodies of the supposedly traitorous non-humans and supposed users of magic demonstratively displayed around the entrances to Novigrad.

The blue-grey mist crept along past the gate, not calling any attention to itself—not that the drunks loitering around the city at this hour were in any state to notice extra fogginess in their field of vision—until it stopped by a wall poster advertising the shows at the Chameleon. The mist then pooled around a sewer grate and sunk down out of sight.

Regis resumed his more substantially corporeal form when he was already some way into the extensive sewer system that ran below Novigrad. He coughed, rummaged around in his shoulder bag, and drew out a bunch of peppermint. He rubbed the leaves over his hands, partially crushing them, then rubbed his nose and took a deep sniff of the released oils before putting the peppermint back into his bag.

The vampire began wandering around the sewers at an unhurried pace. Now was his chance to take a breather (as long as he didn't breathe in too deeply) before he went to find Dandelion in the early morning. He thought he might find in the city sewers some suitable resting place, one that wouldn't remind him of Mere-Lachaiselongue, or Tesham Mutna, or any place he'd ever been, actually. He counted on there being secret passageways and hiding places, some long forgotten, and he was right.

He passed through a hole in a dilapidated brick wall, walked around a bit, and found himself in a spacious room with a sarcophagus with its lid sitting slightly askew. It looked like it would make a great bed if it'd been cleared out by grave robbers already. He shifted the heavy stone slab to see if the original occupant was still in there.

"I told you already, _!@#$ off_!" something yelled from inside the sarcophagus.

Regis jumped back, startled. A very grumpy and tired man was looking up at him. Actually, not a _man_... Regis tensed up, getting ready to defend himself. He could hold his own against lesser vampires, who didn't have a chance of killing him anyway, but it was just his luck to meet another higher vampire today.

"You're not that witcher or that clod of a professor," said the grumpy vampire.

"No, I'm not. Sorry to disturb you. I'll be going now," Regis said quickly, hoping that his interlocutor wouldn't recognize his species affiliation.

"Well, I'll be &!*@-ed," croaked the other vampire, "but aren't you that Gharasham lad who flew smack-bang into the well?"

"Uh..." Regis wasn't sure what to say. If this vampire still remembered him as "that Gharasham lad," perhaps he wasn't particularly concerned with keeping up with the news. There was a good chance that he didn't even know that Regis was anathema.

"Boy, you are looking _rough_ for your age."

Regis bit his tongue to prevent a retort from escaping. "Ah, I'm still regenerating."

"Then you know what it's like. I got here first, so #!@ off." The vampire slid the stone lid back over himself.

"Right away," Regis muttered, making a mental note to not wander this way again.

\--

"It can't be time for lunch yet," Dandelion groaned, brushing his long, unkempt fringe out of his eyes. He unstuck his eyelids and peered in the direction of the window. "It's not even time for breakfast! Look outside! It's still dark!"

"There _is _a little bit of color to the morning sky already," Priscilla said, "and if you would rise before noon more often, you would be a lot better at describing the variegated hues that ripen and bloom upon the surface of the starry vault as Phoebus commences his course across the sky."

"Oh, Priscilla," Dandelion moaned, rolling over and burying his face in the pillow, "what's all this talk of hues and colors in the middle of the night?"

"Stop calling it night and get up, buttercup! You have a visitor."

"Is it Geralt?"

"No. Oh, don't go back to sleep... Come on, he's been waiting while I've been trying to get you up!"

"Yes, yes, my fiery snapdragon," mumbled Dandelion into the pillow. He burrowed further into the bedclothes.

"I'm serious."

"In a moment... and Priscilla, really, I thought I told you not to answer the door by yourself..."

A diffidently delivered "rap-a-tap-tap" on the front door resounded once more throughout the building.

Priscilla stared at Dandelion's unmoving body for a moment, then sat down on the bed and bit her lip. "Do you want me to send him away? He doesn't look like a creditor. Well, he _does_ look like a tax collector, but he looks so kind."

Dandelion mumbled something indistinctly.

"Perhaps he's a herbalist. He certainly smells like a herb shop."

"A herb shop?"

"I don't know what else reeks of wormwood, basil, sage, anise..."

Dandelion lifted up his head, blinked his suddenly wide-open eyes, pushed himself up with his arms, and rolled off the bed with a thump.

\--

"Hello, poet," said Regis.

"Regis, in the flesh," Dandelion gasped, still fumbling with a pesky button just below his chin, "or do my eyes betray me?"

Regis smiled and shook his head.

"Come in out of that mucky street, come in," said Dandelion, ushering Regis over the threshold with his free hand. "Last I heard you were in Toussaint. Or Vicovaro. Geralt isn't very good at keeping up with correspondence, or maybe the postboys lose his letters. Would you like some wine—um—would you like some fresh milk? Perhaps cheese and bread? Cold sausage? I wasn't expecting company, not this early... oh, I'm glad to see you again!"

Regis felt his heart swell. "I'm glad to see you, too." He firmly steered the still jabbering Dandelion into a nearby chair and sat down opposite him across a table. "Will you introduce me to the young lady who greeted me at the door?"

Priscilla entered the room with a tray of cheese and bread and a jug of milk. "I'm Priscilla," she said.

"Pleased to meet you. My name is Emiel Regis. You must be the talented trobairitz also known as Callonetta."

Dandelion raised his eyebrows, seeing Priscilla's ears turning a little red. "Please help yourself to some food and drink. We would have something hot, but, well, it's early," she said.

"I'm sorry for turning up without warning," Regis said with a slight bow of his head, "but I hope this will make up for the inconvenience somewhat." He reached into his seemingly bottomless bag and drew out two bottles.

"Is that...?" Dandelion's face lit up. "Tell me it's that excellent and most exquisite moonshine of yours."

"It is." Regis's fleeting grin flashed in the light of the one burning wall lamp. "These will be the last two bottles for a while, I'm afraid. I've been on the road, and not all the mandrake roots I come across are of the necessary quality."

"Thank you, Regis, really. Hm... it brings back memories. If Geralt comes, and I hope he does, maybe we'll have a drink for old times' sake. Say, Priscilla, sit down and join us; you'll find that Regis is quite the conversationalist," said Dandelion.

He turned to look at the poetess, who was still standing off to the side. She had gone somewhat pale, and her slender fingers were pressed on her throat in the same way she held them on the neck of her lute. "Mr. Regis, how exactly do you know Dandelion?" she asked, her voice modulating into a faint tremolo at the end of her question.

"He's never recited the contents of his memoir, _Half a Century of Poetry_, to you? I'm surprised," said Regis with a cheeky smile.

Dandelion cleared his throat and appeared embarrassed. "I left the original manuscript behind in Beauclair, and, besides, it's a work in progress... Priscilla, my dear, what's the matter?"

The smile dropped from Regis's face as he realized what was bothering Priscilla. "I'm sorry. I really should have written in advance, though I doubt the letter would have made it here before I did. I must have grinned a little too widely. Yes, Priscilla, I am a vampire." Regis got up and offered his chair to Priscilla. "And yes, Dandelion knows." Priscilla looked at Dandelion, who nodded. She mutely took the seat, her hand still hovering near her throat. Regis could see, even in the half-light of the early morning and the flickering light given off by the wall lamp, that there was a fine scar on her throat, some sort of surgical incision. He was surprised: he had thought that she was protecting her throat out of a natural sense of vulnerability in the presence of a vampire. "I apologize for frightening you."

Dandelion reached across the table to hold her hand. "Oh, Priscilla, Regis is all right. He doesn't drink blood at all! In fact, he's more than all right. He's a fine and noble spirit who"—he glanced at Regis, his expression harboring a tinge of something Regis instinctively recognized but couldn't quite place—"truly knows the meaning of self-sacrifice."

Priscilla gave Dandelion's extended hand a quick squeeze and leaned back from the table. "I look forward to hearing all about your adventures together, but perhaps after I've cleaned up and gotten properly ready for the day. Excuse me for now; I'm sure you have a lot to catch up on." She stood up and left the room.

Watching her retreating figure, Dandelion sighed. "Don't let that be your first impression of her. She's wonderful, believe me, and my tongue fails me when I try to sing her praises, so I won't try right now... but these have been trying times for her lately."

"And for you, too," Regis said as he cast a searching look over Dandelion's features.

Dandelion quickly smoothed down his hair. "Does it show that badly? I mean, I've been finding a few, ugh, grey hairs this past year, but... I don't think I've grown any more in the past month or so."

"Well, if you're waiting for Geralt's help, I have good news: he's coming. He's probably traveling just as fast as the post."

Barely had Regis gotten the words out of his mouth when an emotional dam seemed to break within Dandelion, and the poet slumped forward onto the table, his nervous energy suddenly dissipating. He took his head in his hands and laughed. Then his laughter turned into dry sobs.

Regis placed a steadying hand on Dandelion's shoulder and waited.

"This past month," Dandelion finally said, "has been the worst month of my life. It's been remarkably bad given that I've spent the month mostly indoors by Priscilla's side. Doing nothing—being _unable_ to do anything, in fact—is worse than being kidnapped by rival spies eager to torture you for information, riding through Brokilon with a thousand dryad arrows trained on you, or stepping up to the block when the executioner has an itchy axe hand. I can state this categorically." He retrieved a handkerchief from his sleeve and blew his nose loudly. "I nearly lost her once to a fanatic serial murderer. I thought he'd been finished off by Geralt, but now his signature pamphlets are appearing all over the city again. I can't lose her for real this time. She hates being accompanied everywhere, but I can't risk her wandering straight into danger. She puts on a brave face, but I know how to put on a brave face myself, so I know she's scared, too. And I can't do anything about it."

"You wrote to Geralt."

"And words aren't enough to tell you how much relief you've brought me by telling me he's decided to come after all."

"You're his best friend. Did you ever doubt he would?"

Dandelion gave Regis a strange look. "You were at Stygga with him, Regis. And I..."

Regis finally understood what the _something_ was that he had seen in Dandelion's expression earlier. It was guilt.

\--

"...and who else should turn up on our doorstep this very morning but—" Dandelion extended an arm in a dramatic flourish. As if on cue, Regis walked in from a side door. He wended his way between the crowded tables—it was evening and the Chameleon was buzzing with patrons, as usual—and joined Dandelion, Priscilla, and Geralt, who had ridden into the city barely an hour ago. With his hood up to deflect attention, of course; a witcher was barely more welcome in these parts than the monsters he killed.

"Regis. What a surprise," Geralt deadpanned, hiding his actual surprise behind an inscrutable expression.

Regis smiled with his lips pressed tightly together. "Geralt. Good to see you." Their greetings were clipped, but when they pulled each other into a quick bear hug, Geralt put genuine warmth in his squeeze, and he felt Regis return it.

"Raven I sent didn't make it, then," Geralt said.

"Hm-hm," hummed Regis ambiguously.

Geralt went from feeling foolish for expecting a raven to understand Common Speech, to feeling foolish for expecting the vampire to heed a warning. He always knew better, after all.

The tavern hall erupted in cheers as the cabaret performers on stage finished a particularly rousing number. Dandelion and Priscilla expressed their approval the loudest. Geralt had noticed upon his arrival that Dandelion's face seemed older, tired, even pinched with the fear of a hunted animal, but over the course of their catching up, Geralt's mere presence seemed to have taken away at least that last aspect, and now the poet seemed to be letting loose for the first time in a long while.

"Oho, here comes a potential companion for dinner." Dandelion plucked a passing man by the sleeve. The nondescript man jumped a little in fright but calmed down upon seeing that it was Dandelion who was trying to get his attention. "Will you join us for dinner, Dudu?"

\--

"I mean, how do you shave?" the bard asked.

"With a razor," the vampire answered dryly, "but I can feel with my hands if my sideburns are uneven, of course."

"And what if you get greens stuck in your teeth?" Dandelion pressed.

Regis shrugged. "How often do you see my teeth when I smile?" 

"I'm telling you," Dandelion said, folding his arms, "you simply must let Dudu do his thing. You'll be amazed. And Dudu, you will be doing this vampire a great favor. He's never seen what he looks like in a mirror!"

"I suppose it couldn't hurt," Regis conceded, if only to break the flow of Dandelion's insistent harping on the subject.

It was three in the morning and Priscilla was already in bed. The males had opted to stay up to sample the precious last bottles of mandrake hooch by the fireplace. Geralt re-entered the room with a paltry armful of snacks to go with the hooch. The pantry was almost empty at this point in the night. "Are you still trying to convince Regis and Dudu that Dudu needs to turn into Regis?" he asked as he handed out tidbits.

Regis took a dry cracker and shrugged. Dudu took a piece of dried beef and shrugged. Dandelion waved away the proffered snacks and piped up, "Just before you came back, Regis said it couldn't hurt to try it!" He turned to Dudu. "Could you do it, Dudu?"

Geralt looked on, amused. Regis and Dudu had probably figured out by now that the quickest way to get rid of an idee fixe of Dandelion's was to simply humor him.

Dudu glanced at Regis. Regis's eyes crinkled kindly and he nodded. Encouraged, Dudu studied Regis carefully from all sides, then sat down and concentrated.

The halfling form that Dudu usually went about in, that is, when he was not disguised as a randomly selected person in public, began to stretch upwards. The shoulders broadened, the limbs lengthened, the hands grew slim, the fingers tapered elegantly into the points of sharp fingernails. The skin became pallid. The eyes nestled under greying eyebrows and the irises took on the gleam of polished onyx. The nose only needed a minor adjustment in size and a slight bump near the bridge. The hair greyed and thinned out and crept down in front of the ears and down the cheeks to form respectable sideburns.

Regis found himself sitting across from a man on the cusp of passing from middle age to old age, who sat ramrod straight and somewhat stiffly, the dignified look on his face accentuated by the proud upward tilt of his chin. The man's hand was, of course, firmly gripping the strap of his shoulder bag. The overall impression was of one befitting the regal meaning of his name.

Dandelion and Geralt were watching Regis with great interest: Dandelion because he was pleased that he had talked Regis into trying out a unique new experience, and Geralt because he was curious if Regis would react the same way Geralt had when he'd faced a doppler who had turned into him.

Regis's brows came together slightly as he looked Dudu up and down. "I must say I've never seen my body from this angle before," he began. "It looks longer and leaner than I thought it would be, but I suppose I get a distorted perspective from only being able to look down at my own torso from above."

His gaze came to rest on Dudu's face. "And, of course, it's been a long time since I've seen my own face. I look older, much older."

Geralt chuckled quietly—he and Regis didn't differ that much in their opinions of their own looks, after all—then thought to ask, "How did you last see your own face?"

Regis looked at Geralt and smiled. "I had a portrait done by an artistically inclined vampire friend when I was very young." He looked back at Dudu. "If this is what I look like now, assuming that age doesn't change one's features _so_ very drastically, I have a feeling my friend was trying to flatter me."

Dandelion guffawed loudly. Geralt elbowed him in the ribs, causing him to slosh a little hooch onto the floor.

"Dudu," Regis said, "could you turn around and show me your back?"

"I can do one better," Dudu replied in Regis's pleasantly husky baritone. "I can show you your own back." He stood up and turned around.

Regis contemplated his own back for a while. Dandelion studied it as well and exclaimed, "_I_ haven't seen my own back! Well, I haven't seen _all _of it; the tailors have this setup of mirrors that allows you to see your own back somewhat, but... Regis, what do you think of your back? You've been staring at it."

"It looks normal. I was trying to figure out what a... lady friend liked about my back."

Dandelion leaned towards Regis and overshot a little. "Take it from a man of the world," he said in a stage whisper. "Women like a nice behind on a man."

"I suppose that could work if you replaced 'women' with 'vampiresses and succubi' and 'man' with 'vampire,'" replied Regis with a faint smile. 

At this moment Dandelion fell completely off the bench. Geralt leaned over and looked at Dandelion's prone figure: the man was clearly sloshed. "Ah," said Regis, amused. "The cumulative effect of mandrake hooch can indeed catch some unawares. Although one would think that Dandelion, having experienced it before, would have been a little more cautious."

"One would think." Geralt grunted as he got up. "Time I hauled Dandelion off to bed, then." He easily maneuvered the limp and unwieldy body into a fireman's lift. "Good night. Don't stay up too late," he added as he left with Dandelion, who was already starting to snore.

Regis and Dudu were left next to the fireplace. The logs crackled and one abruptly broke in two with a crisp crumbling sound.

"Thank you for the novel experience, Dudu. I do appreciate getting a chance to observe my own appearance. I can already think of a few changes I might make," said Regis with a smirk.

Dudu laughed easily. "Well, well. A vampire with centuries of experience, and yet I've shown him something new!"

Regis laughed too. It was very apparent, he observed, that dopplers took on the mindset of the person they were imitating when in that person's form. Dudu moved and spoke and laughed just like him. A perfect double...

He left off laughing. "Dudu," he said softly, "what if... could you... are you able to impersonate any person you like?"

"Within reason," said Dudu. "They have to be of a similar mass to me."

Regis felt as if his heart was being squeezed. "Well, then, if you don't mind, I have a request..." Dudu's face assumed the familiar open expression that Regis's face had when he was listening attentively. Regis swallowed to get rid of a sudden lump in his throat. "Could you show me a very dear friend of mine?"

"Geralt?"

"No, someone else." Regis adjusted his bag strap slightly. Dudu did the same.

"Have I seen him? Or her?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Unfortunately, then, I can't take on this person's form. I have to be able to observe the person in great detail..."

"That makes sense," Regis interrupted, trying hard to conceal his disappointment. "Thank you anyway."

Dudu inclined his head in a slow nodding bow. "If you don't mind, I'll change back and go to bed now."

Regis likewise inclined his head. He remained silent as Dudu transformed back into an unassuming halfling and made his way out of the room. Regis contemplated the embers of the dying fire. The tiniest creak of the wooden floorboards from two rooms over told him that Geralt was returning.

"I thought you'd gone to bed," said Regis quietly.

"Thought you might like some company." Geralt sat down opposite Regis. He took the poker and prodded the embers a little, making the small flames flare up briefly. "Ah, never mind. I'm bad at approaching things obliquely. I overheard you asking Dudu to change into a very dear friend of yours, damn these sensitive ears..."

"Are you offended it wasn't you?" Regis asked in a joking tone. He was sure, however, that Geralt could detect that his jollity was feigned.

"Not at all," said Geralt evenly—perhaps a little too evenly, Regis thought. Geralt continued to prod the fire with deliberate, slow movements, not looking at Regis. "I think I know who you wanted to see. I just want to say that I'm sorry. I'm sorry it ended that way. I'm sorry you had to make a choice you shouldn't have had to make." The witcher's posture betrayed just the slightest sign of him being tense and ill at ease. "You know, I... I don't want you to have to make that kind of choice again."

Regis said nothing. He simply drew in a shuddering breath through his nose, held it, then slowly released it in a long, soft sigh.

Geralt pulled back the poker. "Fire's going out."

_Fire. Pain. Then nothing. Then, after a long time, a slow journey back to something__ness__, and then everything came back... and then, one day, once again—nothing._ Regis shook his head, trying to shake his thoughts away. He blinked his tired eyes. He felt as old as he now knew he looked.

"Any chance I can convince you to not get involved in this?" Geralt said.

"As much chance as _I_ have of convincing _you_ to not get involved in this." Regis put down the cracker, which he'd forgotten was in his hand. He didn't feel like eating. "I'm not underestimating your skill and experience, as you well know. Nevertheless, a substantial risk remains if the threat is what you think it is, and if you wish to exterminate it completely, you can't avoid—"

The poker clanged as Geralt dropped it and stood up. "Enough, Regis. For your own sake. We'll talk tomorrow."

Regis picked up the glowing poker and carefully slid it into its stand.

Geralt left Regis to his thoughts.

\--

_My last thought before I succumb to sleep..._

The wet nib hovered over the paper, one sheet of many loosely bound into a makeshift notebook. In Corvo Bianco, Geralt had a warm bed to return to every night; he finally had shelves to hold as many books as he could collect year-round, not just what he could bring with him when he went to winter at Kaer Morhen in the past; and he had a desk, and a comfortable chair, and it felt natural to use them for their intended purposes. He'd developed a habit of keeping a journal, and he had brought it on the road with him to Novigrad.

Now he looked at the words he'd just written on the paper. Where did those words come from? He tapped the table with his fingers as he tried to remember, shifting his saddle-sore bottom into a more comfortable position on the chair.

It came to him: he had stumbled upon Regis's journal in his hideout in Mere-Lachaiselongue cemetery around the time Regis was leaving Toussaint. This was the title of Regis's own journal. The last entry that Geralt had seen in that journal was: "I have a feeling that my friend Dettlaff will die. I am sad." It had proved prophetic: Dettlaff had died; by Regis's hand, at that. And, despite the good terms on which Geralt and Regis had last parted in Toussaint, despite the positive outlook of the vampire before he had commenced his journey south, Geralt had a feeling that Regis was still, to put it mildly, sad.

A bit harsh of me, perhaps, to cut him off like that just now, Geralt thought. And it was really for my own sake that I said we'd talk tomorrow. I'm not prepared to talk about this. I hope it's all a hoax and that Hubert Rejk hasn't in fact regenerated and returned; nobody's been killed yet, which gives me grounds for such hope. If he has returned, I simply can't ask Regis to kill another higher vampire. Yes, it's not his blood brother, so it's different, but... I wonder if Regis could be declared double-anathema? Why did he come? Why is he so damn stubborn and contrary?

He put the nib to the paper and found that the ink already dried on the nib. He dipped it into the inkwell again and wrote.

_Why do I surround myself with friends who also insist on pissing into the wind?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor edit for language (may change again later due to thoughts about the rating system). Censoring device borrowed from the Asterix comics and employed to hopefully similarly humorous effect...


	3. Chapter 3

The ruined castle. Dettlaff at Themis's feet. The sword in my hand... I feel ashamed that the sword feels so light and easy in my hand. Themis is waiting, silent. We both know what she is waiting for me to do.

My throat is dry, my mouth is dry, but my eyes are hot and moist. "I can't," I hear myself say. "Not again." My voice sounds like it's coming from somewhere else.

I avoid looking at Dettlaff and Themis. I can only look at the sword in my hand. A dread sight.

"Perhaps it would help if you were blindfolded?" The statue's voice seems not unkind. I glance over. The blindfold is off.

Cat's eyes. Geralt's eyes.

\--

Regis stirred and kicked the covers off his legs. "Makes sense," he murmured to himself thickly, "Witchers. Punish evil. Kill monsters. Geralt has sword. Sword of Themis..." He mumbled something else indistinctly.

With a sudden burst of movement, he pushed the rest of the covers off his torso, shifted an arm over his head, and screamed very clearly, "No! Spare me!"

Then he rolled over and continued sleeping on top of the tangled covers.

In the next room, Geralt was sitting up in bed, his open eyes gleaming gold as they reflected the moonlight streaming in through the window.

\--

Priscilla picked up a section of her long, golden hair near her scalp and pulled a large, flat hairbrush through the hair, from the roots all the way to the ends, in a smooth and careful motion. She repeated this with another section of hair, then with another. The expression on her face as she did this recalled that of a musician practicing his scales.

She gazed into the mirror on the dressing table, looking not at her own reflection, but at Dandelion's. He was still in bed sleeping. She stared at his form, transfixed by every rise and fall of the sheets brought about by his deep, even breathing. He hadn't slept so well in a month. It almost felt as if they were already out of the woods, as if they could return to the familiar and exciting life they'd built together in Novigrad: the two of them managing the Chameleon together, complementing each other's strengths; critiquing each other's poetry; enjoying the opportunity to perform to appreciative audiences; relishing the challenge of getting their more subversive works past the censors.

The sheets rustled as Dandelion shifted. Priscilla wasn't sure when he'd come to bed. He must have stayed up quite late. She loved his company at night and would rather have had him retire to bed at the same time as her, but she was also happy at the thought that he finally had a night to catch up with his friends. Dandelion had talked a mile a minute at dinner, mostly at Geralt, who had bravely borne the onslaught of words and acquiesced to the demands to describe his life in semi-retirement in Toussaint. Geralt's laconic descriptions would usually have drawn jocular mockery from the bard, who had once observed that Geralt could describe astonishing events with astonishing blandness to astonishingly soporific effect, but when Geralt had spoken at dinner, Dandelion had hung on to his every word. Priscilla knew that Dandelion had missed his friend terribly.

As for Dandelion's other friend, the vampire Emiel Regis... There had been the occasional flash of his brilliance in the art of conversation, but for the most part Regis had kept to himself at dinner. He had excellent manners and was very considerate of everyone, but he had been clearly distracted and preoccupied with something else in his thoughts. In contrast to his self-possession when he'd first arrived the previous morning, at dinner last night Regis had seemed... lost.

The rays of sunlight warmed Priscilla's cheek as they crept downwards with the rising position of the sun in the sky. She had been sitting in front of the mirror for quite a long time. She focused on her own face in the mirror and touched the scar on her throat. She faced the surfacing memories with boldness, defying their power to cow her. An alley. Strong hands. The reek of formaldehyde. The glint of a knife. A low, drawling voice telling her that her voice deserved to be taken away for the mockery it uttered. Burning, piercing pain; unconsciousness a relief, waking a torture.

\--

"Oh, my head," Dandelion said. "Oh, my head."

"We could go fishing," Geralt suggested. "The fresh air might help."

"Have you seen the water around Novigrad?"

"Point taken."

"Oh, my head," Dandelion repeated mournfully, staring down at the kitchen table at which he and Geralt were sitting.

Regis appeared in the kitchen out of nowhere and set about kindling a fire in the stove.

"Good mor— afternoon, Regis," Geralt said. "How did you sleep?"

"Better than the bard, I should think." Regis filled a small pot with water and set it on the stove, then went over to a table and started taking herbs out of his bag. "I did advise him to eat and drink plenty of water with the mandrake hooch. He appears to be suffering the consequences of disregarding this advice."

"And how," Geralt said without a trace of pity in his expression.

"Oh, my head."

Regis put some herbs in the pot, pulled out a silver pocket watch, and settled himself against the wall to wait.

"Cheese?" Geralt lifted up a small cutting board with a few pieces of cheese on it and extended it in Regis's general direction.

"No, thank you," said Regis distractedly, still looking at the watch.

"Ah, I see you need to concentrate," Geralt said.

"Oh, my head."

The three of them lapsed into relative silence.

After ten or so minutes, Regis strained the liquid from the pot into a mug and set the steaming mug down in front of Dandelion.

"Oh, my h—what's this?" Dandelion breathed in the pleasant herbal aroma and opened his bloodshot eyes.

"It's not a miracle cure for what ails you, but it should help somewhat," Regis said. "Careful, it's h—"

"AHH!"

"He'll never listen, Regis."

\--

"Buttercup, you're frowning. Is something wrong?" Priscilla looked curiously at Dandelion.

"It's nothing, ducky, just a little burn on my tongue from, uh, hot tea. Please go on," Dandelion lisped with a slight wince. "I'm listening."

"All right. As I was saying, Geralt, let us know if there's anything else we can do to help you while you look into the matter. I can provide you with—"

An urgent knock sounded at the door. Geralt, Regis, Dandelion, and Priscilla looked at each other. Dandelion motioned for Priscilla to stay put and went out of the kitchen. He returned with a nondescript man. They both looked grave.

"Joachim von Gratz is dead," Dudu stated without preamble. "Murdered. In much the same way as the previous victims."

"Von Gratz. The chief surgeon at Vilmerius Hospital," Geralt said. "The one who helped me get on the trail of Hubert Rejk the last time."

"And the one who nursed me back to full health and gave me back my voice after I was attacked by Rejk." Priscilla turned to Geralt, her eyes shining, her mouth set. "Whoever killed him... whether it's the same one or not... Geralt, you _will_ catch the murderer."

"That's my intention."

"Thank you for coming to inform us, Dudu," Dandelion said. His face was drained of the color that Regis's tonic had restored to it earlier.

"The body is at the city morgue. I have to attend to other things now, but I'll be back if I learn more." Dudu gave Dandelion a curt nod and exited the kitchen.

"The morgue will be our first stop, then," Regis said.

Geralt nodded. "Definitely. We have to see if there's a note identifying the next victim, which Rejk would leave with the previous victims." He suddenly narrowed his eyes at Regis. "Hold on. '_Our_ first stop'? I don't remember asking you to come."

"We're losing time, Geralt. The trail will go cold," Regis said without missing a beat.

Geralt was already striding to the door. "I'm going to get my swords now. You, Regis, are staying here. Who's going to watch Dandelion and Priscilla if you go?"

"I don't need watching," Dandelion lisped indignantly, still pale. "I am going with you, Geralt."

"Poet," Regis said blandly, "you are hardly in any condition—"

"Vampire," Dandelion said not so blandly, "I'm not going to let you boss me around—"

"Shut up!" Geralt barked so fiercely that Priscilla and Dandelion both took a step back, startled. "You'll both stay here!"

\--

"So, how would you have gotten into the morgue by yourself?"

Geralt walked into the morgue's autopsy room as Regis held the door open for him. The vampire had made his way to the morgue in mist form ahead of him, opening doors and looking out for guards along the way. "Through the sewers, like last time."

"And how would you have gotten through this door that was locked from the inside?" Regis dangled a key briefly from his fingers and then stuck it back in the lock.

"With the sign of Aard. I'm not as helpless as you seem to think," Geralt snapped.

"I don't think you're helpless; I just think I can be more helpful than you think," Regis said. "You're testy."

"You shouldn't have left those two alone, now that someone, I don't know who, is murdering people in apparently the same way Rejk was before." Geralt started walking from table to table in the autopsy room, not looking forward to encountering a familiar face soon.

"You know, Geralt—"

"Wasting time, Regis," Geralt grunted, continuing to look at the corpses.

He recoiled visibly when he happened upon von Gratz. His gorge rose and he felt his saliva turn sour and pool in his mouth. Dudu was understating it when he said that von Gratz had been murdered in "much the same way" as the previous victims. Geralt felt sincerely sorry for the person who had found von Gratz's corpse.

Regis caught sight of Geralt from across the room. "What's the matter? You look terrible all of a sudden."

"Semi-retirement's made me soft," Geralt said as he focused his mind to overcome his visceral reaction. "I've found von Gratz. Come over here and look."

"Unbelievable," whispered Regis as he joined Geralt at the autopsy table. "I haven't seen such brutality since..." His voice trailed off: whether out of reticence or shock, Geralt couldn't tell.

"Since when? Maybe it'll give us a clue to who did this," Geralt prompted.

"Since I was in my teething years, running with the blood-drinking crowd. What you're looking at is a victim of a higher vampire in a state of fury quite beyond simple intoxication. I've seen what the victims of drunk vampires who lost control looked like, but this man has been... dissected... to a much worse degree. I say _higher_ vampire not just because of the overall appearance of the remains, but also because other, hm, very intentional things have been done to the corpse besides simply ripping it apart, which requires a developed intellect beyond bestial instincts, as well as the possession of a very severe grudge against this individual." Regis broke off his analysis, which he was delivering in a hushed tone, to sniff at the corpse. "He's been burned in places, and look here..."

"Burning. Fire. A reminder of the Eternal Fire, which burns to cleanse people of their wickedness. Hubert Rejk's calling card." Geralt muttered to himself. He tried to focus on Regis's moving mouth rather than on the corpse.

"...and that's just the surface wounds. I'm amazed you could even recognize him in this state," Regis concluded for the moment.

"Got to look for a note about the next victim," Geralt said.

Regis unceremoniously stuck his hand among the corpse (_in_ was not a preposition that could be applied in this case) and felt around carefully for what seemed like an eternity. "Nothing," he finally said. "Tell me about Hubert Rejk, the one who hurt Priscilla. He was a higher vampire?"

"He declared himself to be one," Geralt said, "and he was bloody hard to kill, but I killed him. At least I thought I did. That was before you told me only higher vampires could kill higher vampires. Remember: until we met again in Toussaint I thought you'd been killed by Vilgefortz. Is it possible for a higher vampire to regenerate so quickly, though? It's only been... I've lost track of time... two years, maybe three, since I encountered him."

"Curious. Well, he might not have been wounded as badly as you thought. He could have been playing dead."

"Is that a thing?"

"If I hadn't been blackout drunk when the villagers got me that time, I would have played dead the moment they drove a stake through me instead of waiting for them to cut off my head as well. Granted, it might not have worked, since they were very intent on making sure I was dead, but I would have tried, at least."

"I learn something new about vampires every time I see you. This has been very helpful—"

"Hm, I think someone said that I would be helpful," Regis said. "Yes, I think someone did say that."

"You've made your point." Geralt sighed. He wasn't in the mood to tell Regis to stop interrupting him, especially now that Regis had all but confirmed that they were on the trail of a higher vampire. "Anyway, could be Rejk, could be another higher vampire. In any case, I don't want you to go any further into this with me."

Regis silently observed Geralt for a few moments before speaking. "You've been adamant that I not come, that I not help, from the moment all this began. Why?"

"I already told you last night. The question is why you keep insisting on helping." Geralt felt the conversation being steered towards what he hadn't been ready to talk about the night before, and he wasn't happy about it. He still wasn't ready. He wondered if Regis was.

"I also told you last night, though you didn't let me finish. There's no way for you to kill a higher vampire alone." Regis seemed to be studying Geralt's face in detail. Geralt felt uncomfortable under Regis's gaze.

"Maybe I don't need to kill him—"

"I understood your attitude before the nature of the threat was made clear, but you're still being stubborn, contrary to all good sense, even though we now have a very good idea that there's a higher vampire involved. On top of your original reason—which I consider irrelevant anyway—there's something else now. Something's changed. What is it?"

Geralt turned away from the autopsy table with von Gratz's body only to find himself facing another autopsy table, though at least this corpse looked normal in comparison. "Do you remember your dreams?" Geralt asked after a pregnant pause.

Regis looked thunderstruck for a moment but quickly recovered his composure. "All too well. Why do you ask?"

"I heard you scream last night, in your sleep, I assume. You were asking to be spared. Before that you muttered something about me and my sword and killing monsters. Tell me: are you scared of me?"

Regis frowned, apparently not understanding the question.

"Since I fought Dettlaff," Geralt added, trying to clarify his question, and trying to clarify to himself his own unease with Regis's presence.

"Oh," Regis sighed. "Oh, Geralt, it's just a dream. I wouldn't let it bother you."

"It bothers you, though. Something bothers you, has been bothering you since you came back north from Vicovaro, since or even before you left Toussaint. It's me, isn't it?"

Geralt suddenly felt compelled to add, "But am I the one to blame for your blood brother's death?"

But he didn't say it. He suddenly understood why he had been trying to push Regis away.

Regis looked at Geralt and sighed again. Geralt tried to ignore the feeling that Regis was reading his mind.

"No," Regis said. "It's not you, not you at all."

\--

"Who the hell could it be?" Dandelion muttered as he paced round and round the study.

"Don't break your head against it," Priscilla said. "You can trust Geralt and Regis to do a thorough investigation."

"You hardly seem worried," Dandelion observed.

Priscilla shrugged. "I've grown tired of worrying." She looked around the room and suddenly smiled. "I have an excellent divertissement for you. Pass me the box with all the pamphlets from that accursed 'Concerned Citizen.'"

"Divertissement? You mean a real downer." He handed the box to her anyway.

"We," declared the poetess, "are going to critique the Concerned Citizen's literary ability."

Dandelion grinned.

\--

"I mean, the man has only one motif. Fire! Fire burns! Fire hurts! Fear fire! How about some variety, some contrast? When the orchestra blares away at the same volume the whole way through a piece, nothing stands out; there's no climax!" Priscilla smacked a pamphlet down on the desk for effect.

"Absolutely!" Dandelion yelled enthusiastically. "And what's worse, he thinks his command of literary devices is sufficient. It's half-learned writing, which is worse than unlearned writing! The latter's at least sincere, but the former loses its sincerity in overwrought artifice!"

"Oh, no, I disagree: it's full of sincerity!" Priscilla riposted. "The first batch of pamphlets, the ones we're discussing, were terribly sincere. The harping on fire and punishment is clumsy, but at least the message is clear. But let's move on to the second batch of pamphlets from this past month. They're not as sincere, _and_ they're terribly clumsy!"

"Not as sincere?" Dandelion looked ready to express a dissenting view, but Priscilla jumped in before he could formulate his thoughts.

"Sure, 'fire burns,' 'fire cleanses,' and the like is still in there, but you can tell the author's heart isn't in it. The same care hasn't been taken to produce a terrifying effect. And the rhetoric is muddied by unrelated themes like the wickedness of witchers. Remember how we thought these were by a copycat?" Priscilla picked up the stack of the second batch of pamphlets and riffled the sheets carelessly.

"Yes—the first time the pamphlets appeared, the murders followed almost immediately, and everybody understood that the murders were the work of the author making good on his threats. This time... isn't it odd that the first person to be murdered is Joachim von Gratz, an altogether upstanding citizen? And only after a month?" Dandelion furrowed his brows, his enthusiasm clearly dampened. "It smacks of a personal vendetta rather than a public condemnation. I know Rejk wasn't fond of von Gratz."

Priscilla set down the pamphlets. She had lost steam as well. "And he was murdered just after a witcher arrived in town..."

"Oh, no," Dandelion said, alarmed.

"What is it?"

"Bait!" he exclaimed, jumping up. "If it's Rejk, he's baiting Geralt! For revenge!"

Priscilla also jumped up. "But Regis is with Geralt, and—"

"I don't know how vampires fare against other vampires, and I don't care, because Regis can take care of himself. _Geralt's_ not prepared; he's expecting to follow the scent, but he'll be ambushed!" Dandelion wrung his hands. "And all I can do is—"

"Go and warn him!" Priscilla yelled.

Dandelion unclasped his hands, stunned. "What? And leave you?"

Priscilla practically shoved Dandelion out the door. "Go!"


	4. Chapter 4

"It's Dandelion! Open up!"

The door finally opened just a little. Dudu peered through the crack, then opened the door all the way. "It _is _you. Did something happen?"

"I think Rejk's back. Think he's laid a trap for Geralt. Have to warn him. Can't get into the morgue, so need to go where Geralt would go next. Where was von Gratz's body found?"

"On St. Gregory's Bridge."

Dandelion cursed loudly. It was a long way from here to Temple Isle. "Come with me?"

The doppler looked alarmed. "Me? I won't be much help..."

"Could be, if you impersonated Geralt to lure out—"

"—a higher vampire? I have my moments of daring, but there's no way we'd survive! I'm sorry, Dandelion."

Dandelion let off another round of curses, which were directed not at Dudu, whose reaction he understood and thoroughly sympathized with, but at the situation in general. "I'd better get going," he finally said after he caught his breath.

"Goodbye, poet, and good luck. I'd go if I weren't so concerned for my own skin..." Dudu said apologetically as he slowly shut the door.

"And you think I'm not?!" Dandelion yelled at the closed door.

\--

Geralt and Regis stepped out from a side door onto the street. They'd commenced their investigation late in the day, so it was already dark outside now, but nightfall was no hindrance to their work. If anything, the less busy the city was, the better.

"Good thing the coroner's logbook was easy to find," Geralt said in a low voice as he untied Roach from where he'd left her. "As we discussed, I'll go to St. Gregory's Bridge right away."

"And I'll check on Dandelion and Priscilla, and come join you soon," Regis confirmed.

"See you at the bridge." Geralt mounted the saddle. Roach felt a litte skittish under him, no doubt because of the vampire's presence.

"Be careful, Geralt." As Regis lifted his head to look up at Geralt, the vampire's eyes caught the faint light of a lamp from a window across the street and gleamed eerily. "I advise you to take your potions in advance, just in case."

"Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs," Geralt responded with a weak smile.

Regis hesitated a moment before he smiled likewise and disappeared into the shadows.

\--

The moon was full tonight. Its cold rays competed with the hot glow of the roaring fires in the giant braziers that dotted the tower of the Great Temple of the Eternal Fire on Temple Isle, which loomed large in Geralt's field of vision as he reached St. Gregory's Bridge from the south. Temple Isle was quiet. The bridge was quiet. It felt strange. Of course, no-one engaged in revelry at night on Temple Isle, of all places, but the silence still felt unusual.

Geralt dismounted and tied Roach to a nearby post. He wanted to start searching for clues right away, but he remembered Regis's advice and started undoing his potions pouch. Even though the moonlight made it easier to see and he was mentally prepared for anything to happen, he could still do with enhanced vision and reflexes.

Then he stopped and unsheathed his silver sword. He had realized that the silence was unusual because it was complete. Not only human sounds were absent; there was not a single twitter or chirp. He looked at Roach: she was tense with fear.

"Rejk," Geralt called out. "I'm ready for you."

"What a coincidence," a calm, drawling voice answered out of thin air. "So am I."

\--

"Regis!" Priscilla spotted the vampire from across the busy tavern and immediately started making her way through the crowd to meet him. "Dandelion found you?" She looked around. "Where's Geralt?"

Regis frowned. "Geralt's on the killer's trail. Where's Dandelion?"

Priscilla's heart sank.

\--

Geralt felt the faintest brush of a cool whisper of air just beside his left ear. He remained rooted to the spot, sword drawn and held out in his right hand, his weight centered over his left foot, from which stance he could readily spring into action. He wasn't going to fall into a trap by moving hastily. Only his eyes darted from side to side to take in his surroundings, and he strained his ears to hear as much as he could.

He heard his heartbeat: slow, steady, controlled, efficient. And nothing else.

Another whisper of air passed beside his right ear. He resisted the urge to twitch and react. Rejk was being cautious as well. Very cautious. He wasn't indulging in grandiose speeches. He was hiding and waiting, biding his time.

Roach snorted. A figure materialized on the north end of the bridge. Geralt noted the distance between himself and the figure. There was a lot of space for traps.

The narrow blade of a rapier flashed white and red under the light of the moon and the fires. Rejk had brought a sword, strangely enough.

Geralt calmly waited on his side of the bridge. Neither of them moved.

"You're going to let me go?" Rejk asked, his voice low and distant.

"No."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

"You'll come to me. You're not going to let me go, either."

Rejk laughed.

Geralt didn't have to wait long for Rejk to reach him. The rapier came slashing down towards Geralt's head, quickly but predictably. The witcher wasted no unnecessary effort in lifting his hand and executing a practiced parry quinte. The rapier bounced off the silver blade with a clank. Rejk staggered backwards and drew back his sword hand and elbow, telegraphing his next move and leaving his torso open to attack. Geralt only needed to drop his hand down, close the distance between them, and thrust straight.

But he didn't, and therefore he was prepared to dodge when a dagger appeared in Rejk's other hand and slashed towards him. The vampire, though apparently a clumsy swordsman, was much faster than any human opponent, which made up for his technical deficiencies. Fortunately, the witcher was also much faster than any merely human opponent.

Roach pawed at the ground with her hooves as the two of them exchanged a flurry of blows. The clanking of their swords was interspersed with the rapid tapping of their boots on the paving stones. No heavy breathing was heard and neither seemed to be tiring at all, but for all that the fight was no less an effort for either of them.

It seemed clear who had the upper hand, though, as Geralt forced Rejk to back up against the parapet on one side of the bridge.

\--

Dandelion cursed a blue streak down the street as his current steed turned out to be just like his old one, Pegasus: slow and plodding, especially when he actually needed to go somewhere.

"If you weren't already a gelding," Dandelion uttered through clenched teeth as he tried all sorts of commands and gestures to make the horse go faster, "I'd have a few more choice words to say to you."

\--

Rejk stomped on something with the heel of his boot. The sound of cracking glass was heard and the ground seemed to burst into flame around their feet. Rejk disappeared.

Geralt hurriedly cast Aard to blow out the flames on the bridge. It was a mistake: the fire was borne on an oily substance and the blast of Aard simply atomized the oil and caused a brief but spectacular fireball to flare up. He jumped up onto the parapet. That was also a mistake, Geralt realized too late as his feet touched the rock and slipped: the bastard must have lubricated the capstones, and Geralt hadn't noticed at all.

As long as I hit water, Geralt thought as he tumbled off St. Gregory's Bridge, I won't die.

Just before he reached the water, a giant brown bat swooped down and sank its claws into his cloak and partially into his armor.

Geralt definitely remembered Regis taking the form of a giant _black_ bat when the latter had gone on his rampage through Stygga Castle. He felt the bat flying upwards. He didn't want to wait to find out where Rejk was taking him; his sword was still in his hand, so he hacked and slashed at the bat with all his might. He felt warm blood spatter onto his face.

The bat that was Hubert Rejk was clearly displeased and shook Geralt so violently that he lost his grip on his sword. The sound of a splash reached Geralt's ears as the water claimed his sword. Oh, Aerondight... he wondered what he was going to tell the Lady of the Lake this time.

\--

A thin cloud of blue mist streaked down the street so fast that the leaves of creeping vines on building facades rustled.

\--

The bat carried the witcher higher and higher, and adjusted its grip so that Geralt dangled head down. Geralt realized with horror that Rejk was intending to drop him on the stone bridge, like a seagull that cracks molluscs open by dropping them from a great height onto the rocks.

A hellish screech pierced his ears as a dark projectile hurtled towards them and collided into the brown bat, jostling Geralt severely and causing him to flip right side up again. The blur turned out to be a giant black bat, and it was doing its darndest to beat the brown bat out of the air. Geralt could feel the claws losing their grip on him, and he could only hope that they would be a lot closer to the ground before he slipped out of Rejk's grip.

Quite the racket was being made: two giant bats were screeching and chaotically beating their wings at each other, Roach was striking the ground and making all sorts of equine sounds of alarm and panic, and Geralt cursed foully from time to time whenever he got caught between the two bats. That nobody was coming out to see what was happening was a wonder—or not, since the ruckus was truly terrifying and unearthly, and one would have to be a fool to venture towards the source of such noises.

In the end, Geralt didn't slip out or get shaken out of Rejk's grip. Rejk let go of Geralt before they lost too much altitude. Geralt tried to relax himself and roll into the fall as he hit the bridge feet first. At the exact, split-second moment of impact, he didn't feel anything, and he tried to mentally hold on to that blissful lack of feeling as his nervous system got the message about the fall just a fraction of a second later. As he lay on the floor, it took him a while to realize that the giant bat that had landed and was now looming over him was Regis and not Rejk. Not that he could have done anything at this point if it had been Rejk.

Regis's human form replaced his bat form. The barber-surgeon's hand instinctively went for his bag.

"Go after Rejk," Geralt managed to utter hoarsely, although he wanted to scream and moan.

"Look you over first," muttered Regis as he knelt down beside Geralt and rummaged through his bag. Up close, Geralt could see that Regis's eyes were hard and cold, and a shiver ran down his battered spine.

"I'm fine," Geralt said, suppressing a grimace. "Witchers are tough. Just delay him, understand? Don't let him leave. I'll join you."

"You just fell—"

"Go, go, go."

Regis drew back and disappeared.

Geralt bit his tongue to stop himself from making any sound and slowly undid his potions pouch with one hand.

\--

As Dandelion approached St. Gregory's Bridge, he noted that it was utterly still and quiet, even for this time of night. Strangely, there was a smell of some sort of oil in the air, and wisps of smoke were rising from one side of the bridge. Suddenly, a familiar silhouette caught his eye. The familiar silhouette was lying on the ground and did not look to be in good shape. Dandelion untangled his feet from the stirrups and dismounted his horse as quickly as he could. He sprinted to his friend's side, his heart in his throat. "Geralt!" he exclaimed.

"Go home, you dolt," Geralt groaned, propping himself up on one elbow with a sudden effort. "What are you even doing here?"

"I want to help," Dandelion said, his face almost as pale as Geralt's. It was clear that he wasn't sure at all how to help.

"Fine." Geralt shifted and winced. "See where I tied Roach?" He lifted an arm to point out the horse and winced again. "I've already taken Swallow but I won't heal up fast enough. Need to be able to ignore the pain, power through. Get me my flask of White Gull from the left saddlebag."

"What happ—?"

"Get me the White Gull."

Dandelion obediently fetched the flask. "Where's Regis?" he couldn't help asking, even though he knew he wouldn't get an answer.

"Open the flask for me," Geralt instructed, his voice quieter than usual. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. Dandelion unscrewed the flask and decided to not hand it to Geralt but directly put it to his lips instead. Geralt drained the small flask quickly and coughed, grimacing. "Black Gull's a stronger analgesic than this, but I need to not be hallucinating too strongly if I want to go and stop Regis."

Stop Regis from doing what? Dandelion wondered. "Can I—?"

Geralt coughed again and shook his head. The White Gull seemed to be kicking in and dulling his pain; he got up cautiously, assisted by Dandelion. "Let me walk on my own," Geralt said. He took a few steps and winced a little, but it appeared that he could deal with the pain as it was now.

Dandelion anxiously hovered near Geralt, waiting for further instructions.

Geralt looked at Dandelion. "You helped me when I needed you. You did well. Thank you," he said in an unusually warm tone of voice. "Now go home, you're needed there."

\--

Regis followed the trail of vampire blood, which grew fainter as he went along, up to the pavillion in front of the Great Temple. He had been wounded himself, but had already healed. No doubt Rejk had also already recovered from their brief scuffle in the air earlier.

A dark-haired man emerged from behind a large brazier some distance away. Regis's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Clemens," he said.

"I've left that name behind," Rejk responded, clearly not in a hurry to come any closer.

"You certainly have, judging by the state you leave your victims in," Regis said coldly. "Whatever you call yourself, I haven't forgotten you—the young pup that she left me for."

"Ah. Emiel. The shameless old drunkard that she left," Rejk said, his voice dripping with condescension. "I thought I recognized the reckless flying. Good thing you collided with me and not a well this time, eh?"

"You haven't changed at all." Regis smiled with his lips pressed tightly together. "No wonder she left you, too."

"I," said Rejk, "left her."

"Oh, I'm sure you did. Looking at the two of us, it seems to me that our vampiress had bad taste in partners. Or just bad luck."

Rejk waved his hand, his face stony. "We're not here to discuss her. To the point: am I to understand that you're indeed under anathema, Emiel? It's a rather large step from being a drunk-flying fool to killing another vampire."

The color drained from Regis's face—what little of it there was, anyway.

"Scared I'll try to kill you?" Rejk said, clearly mistaking the emotions underpinning Regis's reaction. "It's within my rights according to the vampiric code, but I won't. As long as you stay out of my way."

"I'm not going to sit back and watch while you kill my friends."

"I noticed. You're so very passionate about these humans of yours. Don't you think you're overdoing your penance for your youthful bloodlust?"

Regis clenched his fists and willed himself to keep a cool head. I can delay him, he thought. Perhaps I can even convince him to change his ways. "One can't overdo it when it comes to treating other beings with a basic level of respect. This is their world. You've lived among them, too—"

"Enough of that, please; you sound just like the Humanist." Rejk walked right up to the brazier and reached in. He took a burning coal in his hand. "Now, listen, Emiel, and maybe you can understand what I'm about, though I don't expect you to. Observe: our kind is not harmed by fire." He briefly held up the coal and then chucked it back into the brazier. "Humans, elves, dwarves, however—they can be burned, consumed, turned into a little pile of dust by fire. Ours is the clearly superior race in our physical resistance. And thus we possess a symbolic superiority also. Fire refines; it separates the dross from the precious metal. Humans and the like are full of dross. They need to be refined, purified. Whereas we are already pure, and so fire cannot harm us."

"Says the defiler of corpses to the recovering blood addict," Regis muttered.

"Don't interrupt me," Rejk said, holding up a finger in warning. "Have you seen this city? Have you seen the sad lives its citizens lead? Have you smelled the stink of humanity rotting in its own filth? They know their wretched state; they know they can elevate themselves to a loftier existence—that is why they worship the Eternal Fire, hoping to purge themselves of the dross that contaminates them and corrupts their very being. I admit I found myself very drawn to this cult when it first sprang up in Novigrad. Even though I don't believe in the Eternal Fire now, I'm not ashamed to say I was a most ardent follower and practitioner of the faith once."

Regis squinted. "You lost your faith in the Eternal Fire?" The way Rejk was going on, Regis didn't even need to try to stall for time. But where was Geralt?

"It's not so crass as a loss of faith," Rejk said with a shake of his head. "Rather, I recognize now that there was no _external_ entity called the Eternal Fire in whose service I was acting when I preached on the streets and urged the Novigradians to reform their ways, or when I purged the worst of them from their midst, or when I faced off with a faithless witcher. Otherwise, those Novigradians would have cleansed themselves; they would have heeded the warnings I left them in ink and blood; and I would not have been defeated by a lowly witcher. No, there is no Eternal Fire as the humans worship it. But there is Fire. Oh, there is Fire! I have entered into the depths of the mysteries of Fire, and Fire is in me. And the humans will recognize it, too, whether or not they are your friends. They will regret touching the flame. For I purge. I consume. I cleanse."

The roar of the fire in the brazier filled in the silence after Rejk's words.

"I have often wondered: if vampires had a god, what would he be like?" Regis said suddenly and conversationally, spoiling the dramatic effect that Rejk was clearly going for. "Wonder no more, I say to myself, he is here before you. Behold your god, O Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy: his name is Hubert."

Rejk's face must have reddened, although it was hard to tell against the red glow of the fire. "You mock me?"

"I do mock you," Regis stated, again in a conversational tone of voice. "Like I said, you haven't changed one bit. You've always been a judgmental prick. Now you've gone off the deep end and set yourself up as judge, jury, and executioner for an entire race! You really have gone too far."

"Too far, Emiel?" Rejk drawled. "If you knew what kind of people I rid the world of, what kind of lives they led, their perverse resistance to the sword of justice that I wield... But who am I talking to? I am talking to a vampire who has killed one of his own kind."

He's pushing my buttons, Regis thought. He's doing this on purpose to distract me and provoke me.

"In cold blood," Rejk added.

Just pushing buttons, Regis reminded himself.

Rejk sniffed. "And I thought Dettlaff van der Eretein was your friend."

"More than that," Regis heard his own voice shout. "He was my blood brother."

"You killed your blood brother, even?" Rejk didn't even blink an eye. "You really have gone too far, Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy."

With a great effort, Regis regained control of himself. "You didn't come here to talk about her, and I didn't come here to talk about him."

"And what have we come here to talk about? The best vintage of Est Est?"

"You need to be brought to justice."

"Before a human jury? To put me in a human prison?" Rejk allowed himself a laugh. It sounded deceptively pleasant. "You do realize you're talking to a higher vampire, don't you?"

"The vampire cage at Tesham Mutna still works," Regis said darkly. "It's held up excellently, oh, very excellently, over the centuries. I know this from personal experience."

Rejk wasted no time in responding. His fingernails sprouted into long claws and he darted straight at Regis.

Delay, just delay him, Regis thought as he felt his fangs erupt.

\--

Geralt was painfully aware of how slow he was going. He had found a large fallen branch to use as a makeshift walking stick, but even so he was barely shuffling along and every step sent jolts of pain through his body. He wasn't sure what _wasn't_ broken by the fall.

The trail of vampire blood on the ground grew fainter and fainter as the sound of a desperate fight grew stronger. Geralt willed himself to keep moving. He wasn't going to be much help, but if he could at least cast a Sign—

Suddenly, silence fell. Geralt feared the worst.

Then he saw Regis, head bloody and clothes torn, standing over Rejk's body.

I’m too late, Geralt thought. He felt a salty sting in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Regis."

"What for?" Regis said coldly.

"That you... I made you kill..."

Regis looked confused for a moment, then shook his head and let out a humorless laugh. "No, he's just out for the count. I'm glad you're here. What'll we do with him?"

Geralt bit his lip. He wanted to sit down, but he figured he wouldn't be able to get up again if he did. Besides, Regis would notice and start worrying; as it was, the vampire was distracted for now by the adrenaline rush of a recent fight. "If he were human, he'd be hanging by now," Geralt pointed out.

"I know," Regis said. He sounded tired.

"What do you think we should do?" Geralt asked carefully.

"Toss him in the cage in Tesham Mutna."

"Drag him from Novigrad to Toussaint? Across half the known world?"

"He'll keep in a pine box."

"Ha, ha."

"I'm serious."

"To what end?"

"...perhaps he'd be reformable after enough punishment in Tesham Mutna."

"You're a great optimist."

"I try my best," Regis said, looking up at the moon and twisting his mouth into a crooked smile.

Geralt noticed that tears were forming at the corners of Regis's eyes. "Regis," he said softly, "Rejk isn't Dettlaff."

"Damn right I'm not," a voice growled. Sharp claws shot out towards Geralt.

"Enough!" Regis bellowed, blocking Rejk's blow. Geralt barely managed to stumble out of the way.

Rejk bared his fangs and rapidly recited: "I claim my right, cursed son of strife, to take what is due: life for life." Regis involuntarily shivered upon hearing the ritual words uttered in the ancient vampiric tongue. The bruxae that had tried to kill him before in Toussaint had been too young to know the language or the words. Blind fear flooded his senses, and he instinctually tried to protect his neck by hunching his shoulders up. Rejk, taking advantage of Regis's momentary panic, hurled himself at Regis, and the two vampires tumbled onto the ground and ended up grappling each other.

Geralt was finding it hard to keep his cool. First he fired off Igni at Rejk, but it obviously had no effect on the vampire. Next he used Aard, but the blast was weak due to him trying to employ another Sign so soon after using Igni and also due to his weakened state, and it harmlessly glanced off the flailing tangle of claws and fangs. Rejk was scrabbling at Regis's neck, trying to get a grip on his shoulders to hold him still, but Regis had Rejk pinned beneath him with one hand and was desperately swatting Rejk's claws away with the other. Geralt saw no choice but to get physically involved. He tossed away the large branch that he had been leaning on and, as stars flashed in his field of vision, grabbed Rejk by his dark hair and pulled his head back, exposing his neck.

Something flashed in Regis's eyes. Geralt trembled at the sight. In a very natural, very practised movement, Regis did to Rejk what Rejk had been intending to do to him.

"Self-defense," Regis said in a quaking voice as he rocked back to sit on his haunches. He hung his head. "I'm allowed that by the codex, too."

"I'm sure you are," Geralt said. He attempted to get up and promptly collapsed.


	5. Chapter 5

"Your White Honey, where is it?"

"Potion vials were shattered. Just the Swallow was intact."

"Where—and you took all of the Swallow just now?"

"And White Gull. In the saddlebag I still have Black Gull--"

"That's not what you need right now. Too much toxicity already. You didn't listen to me."

"I did listen. I mean, I tried. Oh, my head."

"You sound just like Dandelion. Don't move. I said _don't move_!"

\--

"...probably multiple internal lacerations, a concussion..."

"Hey, Regis... Do you... need a moment, Regis?"

"What? No. Concussion, fracture of the—or _fractures_..."

"Really, if you want to be alone..."

"No, I don't. Please, not now."

\--

"My silver sword. Aerondight, my sword, it's gone."

"You're awake again. Do you remember—?"

"You don't understand, I need it for killing monsters. That's what I do. Whether I like it or not—"

"I do understand. Hush, now. We must get you back to..."

\--

"Hey, Regis?"

"It's Dandelion. Regis, get back here, he's awake!"

"Hush, not so loud... Regis needs a break..."

"What are you talking about? You're the one who needs to rest. Wait, don't close your eyes..."

\--

"Having a home... it's the best."

"Hm? Oh! I swear I only just nodded off! I mean, I was resting my eyes for a moment."

"B.-B., you're the best majordomo. Marlene, you're the best cook. Ciri, you're the best daughter. And Yen, you're the best damn—"

"Stop right there, Geralt, or I'll write another song about you and Yennefer and she'll want to kill me again."

\--

"Did I embarrass myself when I was out of it?"

"Not a whit. And if you're properly awake now, Priscilla and I can repeat our expression of gratitude to you, in full this time. We spent quite some time composing it together. Would you like it declaimed in the Lyrian manner or sung?"

"Gratitude? Save it for Regis."

"Funny you should say that. He said to save it for you."

\--

"And write a postscript for Marlene: 'I am still in one piece, like a sausage,'" Geralt dictated slowly from the bed with his eyes closed. Everything hurt, especially his head right now, but yes, he was in one piece.

"What?" Dandelion stopped writing and looked up.

"Think, poet."

"The casing is intact but the inside is minced meat?" Priscilla piped up.

Geralt gave her a thumbs up with his right hand, which peeked out from under the covers. Dandelion rolled his eyes and dutifully wrote down the postscript, finishing off the letter that Geralt wanted to send to Corvo Bianco. The battered witcher was going to have to recuperate in Novigrad under Regis's care for a few weeks before he would be able to ride a horse again.

Regis cleared his throat. "The _casing_, as you call it, might not have remained intact if you'd been dropped from a few feet higher. You have a closed fracture, but it could very well have been an open one. And let's not go into detail about—"

"Yes, let's not," Geralt said.

Regis raised his eyebrows. Geralt didn't care. He wanted to think about his vineyard, his house, his desk, his books, his dining table—in short, all the comforts of home, his home, that he was looking forward to returning to.

Dandelion handed Geralt the letter to look over. Geralt took the paper in his right hand and rubbed it between his fingers gently. He didn't look at the words; he trusted Dandelion to write what he said. It hurt his eyes when he tried to concentrate too hard on looking at something, anyway. He breathed in the scent of drying ink.

"When can I sit up to write again?" Geralt couldn't turn his head to look at the person he was talking to, his neck being so sore, but Regis understood the question was addressed to him.

"Soon, I hope. You'll tell me when you feel good enough."

\--

_My head still hurts. They propped me up with pillows. Dandelion caught some fish. Who knows where from? Priscilla can cook well. They made fish soup. Regis, when he's not hovering around me, refines the tavern's recipes._

Geralt closed his eyes, put down the quill, leaned over the side of the bed, and threw up into the conveniently placed chamberpot.

_Enough writing for now._

\--

"I have bad news for you," Regis said as he entered the room in the morning with yet another herbal concoction for Geralt.

Geralt wracked his brain, but he couldn't remember expecting any news of any sort. "Hm. What?"

"Your silver sword—I couldn't find it in the water," Regis said, looking quite apologetic.

So that's why Regis was gone last night, Geralt thought. He hadn't heard anything, not even breathing, from the room next door. "That's it? That's the bad news?"

Regis cocked an eyebrow. "Well, excuse me for thinking your livelihood was important to you."

"I didn't mean it that way," Geralt hurried to say. "Thanks for looking."

"Hm." That sound of Regis's could mean anything from displeasure to genuine indifference. "Anyway, I did retrieve a rapier and dagger," Regis added as he handed Geralt the warm cup of herbal something.

"Rejk's." Geralt sipped the liquid. It soothed his stomach. "Do what you want with them."

"You really won't miss that sword?"

"Aerondight? If it's meant for me, it'll come to me again."

\--

_Regis and Priscilla go picking herbs together. Priscilla says it's a fun new thing for her to do. She seems happy to finally be able to go out freely again. That is not surprising._

Geralt paused to let his eyes rest. He looked over at the outline of the curtains, which were mostly blocking the bright sunlight, but which still let in just enough light for him to write by without overwhelming his eyes. He took up the quill again.

_What is surprising is that Regis seems happy, too._

\--

"It's good to have you here," Priscilla said as she tuned her lute at the kitchen table. Regis was washing their morning's haul of green matter and sorting them into piles for immediate use, for drying, and for further processing.

"It's good to be here," Regis responded. "I must say, it's wonderful to have a little corner of a kitchen to work in. It's been a long time since I last stepped foot in my old house in Dilingen. It's probably burned down long ago since the wars swept through the North. Or else someone has, I hope, made good use of it."

His old house? Yes, Priscilla thought, she could imagine Regis as a homebody.

"You and Dandelion have certainly done very well with the Chameleon," Regis continued, picking up a knife to start skinning some roots. "It's a lively place in the evenings, and in the daytime it's quite pleasant and quiet. It must be an interesting yet satisfying life, managing a tavern and cabaret." He looked up from peeling the roots and cast a benevolent glance round the kitchen. "What a beautiful home you've built together."

She caught the wistfulness in his voice. Watching his skilled hands moving nimbly with the knife, she could simultaneously imagine him living by his wits on the road.

\--

_Finally taken a turn for the better. Thought the nausea would never stop. I wonder if the letter made it to Corvo Bianco. Would love to hear from home._

Geralt paused his writing and rested his eyes out of an abundance of caution, then put the nib to the paper again.

_So much to write, so many thoughts, now that my head is clearer. Here are just some. If it weren't for Regis, I'd be dead. If it weren't for Dandelion, I'd be dead. Good to have friends who insist on pissing into the wind, I guess. _

_I find it strange that I don't care about the sword. It seems like a dream, Regis telling me he couldn't get it back. I remember when I lost my swords in Kerack (Dandelion was there for that, of course; isn't he always there?) and I went to such lengths to get them back. Maybe the sword's not for me now. Maybe the Path's not for me now—_

The nib slipped. Geralt's hand crashed into the inkpot, which was precariously balanced on a pillow on his lap. A mess was inevitably made on the floor. Geralt sighed and tossed the journal away to the foot of the bed.

\--

"You want to go back to Corvo Bianco?" Dandelion asked. "In this state?"

"I'm just restless," Geralt said. He took the block and knife from Dandelion's hands and idly began whittling away at the soft wood. Regis had decided that it would be better for Geralt to also have a more tactile occupation while recuperating instead of straining his eyes and mind writing all the time, or thinking of something to write all the time. "Besides, my fracture's almost healed. I feel a lot better already. And I can't keep imposing on you."

"Don't use that language with me. Impose! What kind of friend would I be if I didn't welcome you into my home?" Dandelion shook his head. "Besides, what's waiting for you back there? Yennefer's away, Ciri's doing her own thing..."

"You'd miss your home even if Priscilla were away, wouldn't you?"

"I suppose I would."

"Well, I do miss my home." Geralt grimaced suddenly. "Oh, look what you made me say, now."

Dandelion smirked.

\--

_I got out of bed today and watched birds from the balcony. Regis was there too, communing with the local avian wildlife..._

"Good morning, Geralt," Regis said, not turning around. He was leaning on the balustrade overlooking the street and occasionally scattering breadcrumbs by the handful, much to the delight of many pigeons, crows, and sparrows. "Careful of that uneven plank by the door."

Geralt shuffled sideways to avoid tripping over the wonky plank. "I can see," he said, but not grumpily. "Thanks for looking out for me. And taking care of me."

Regis shrugged. "No need to thank me; just continue getting better. You're doing very well, and you should be able to ride again soon enough. Don't strain yourself too hard, though. You should take a seat," he said, gesturing towards a little chair near the door.

"You're up early," Geralt observed as he lowered himself carefully into the chair. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you."

The quiet street was starting to get more foot traffic. People were waking up and starting to go about their business. Geralt watched Regis throw handfuls of breadcrumbs until the bread was all gone.

"That's the end of the tavern's stale bread from yesterday," Regis said to the birds as he dusted off his hands. "Time to head to the kitchen." He turned around. Geralt saw that there was a smile on his face. He was relieved to see it.

"Keeping busy, I see," Geralt said.

"Very. It's a tonic for body and mind. I get up and work, then I go to bed and sleep."

"And you sleep well," Geralt said emphatically.

The corners of Regis's mouth twitched. "If you're going to ask about dreams again..."

"Forget I said anything," Geralt said. He didn't want the smile to drop from Regis's face.

"Why should I? Let me put your mind at ease, for I see you're still worried about my sleep, my dreams, my supposed subconscious fear of you. We never did really finish talking in the city morgue, did we? As I said, I remember my dreams clearly..." Regis trailed off as a pigeon landed on his arm and started insistently pecking at his hand. He produced a crust of something from his coat pocket and pitched it far away. The pigeon flew off after it.

Geralt noted, to his dismay, that Regis was frowning.

"In my dream, it wasn't you standing over me with a sword. It was I who was standing over Dettlaff. And it was he who asked to be spared in my dream, not I."

Geralt nodded. He didn't want to say anything.

"I still don't understand why I dreamed that, since Dettlaff was, to put it mildly, proud," Regis continued. "He'd never beg. And he didn't, in the end. In fact, he let me do it. You saw how fiercely Rejk and I fought on Temple Isle; and you remember how Dettlaff didn't resist at all. In the end."

Geralt still didn't say anything.

Regis shrugged and smiled awkwardly. "Anyway, I hope that helps you. You don't scare me, witcher though you may be; you never have, in fact. It's time for me to head to the kitchen."

"Sometimes," Geralt said as Regis passed his chair on the way to the door, "we dream what we wish would have happened."

"I would have beautiful dreams if that were always the case," Regis replied, "and I would never want to wake up."

\--

Dandelion hummed pleasantly as he stacked the new batch of posters advertising the latest show at the Chameleon.

"That's a beautiful little melody. And a new one," Priscilla observed.

"My muse has returned," Dandelion declared.

"Oh? Haven't I always been here?" Priscilla teased.

"The smile has returned to your face, the spring has returned to your step, et cetera, et cetera. In short, I am so very glad to see you back to your usual self."

"I'm glad to see you happy again, too."

Dandelion resumed his humming, set the posters by the door to take out later, and headed for the kitchen.

"Dandelion," Priscilla called after him, "you're glad to have Geralt and Regis here, aren't you?"

"Oh yes," Dandelion said, pausing in the doorway. "In fact, I'm going to look for Regis now. I hear he's made up another new recipe, but this time for an artisanal alcoholic beverage."

"Can we keep them?"

"What did I tell you about bringing home wolves and bats off the streets?" Dandelion scolded with an exaggerated frown.

Priscilla laughed.

"But really," Dandelion continued, "I think Geralt's had enough of being away from home. I'm sure he'll be off the moment he can hold himself up in the saddle. As for Regis..."

\--

_I will be ready to leave Novigrad in the next few days. They should have received my letter in Corvo Bianco by now. I think I shall ask Regis to come with me, at least until the Sansretour Valley. There'll be no rush; we can take the scenic, non-vampire-infested route, and I would appreciate the company. If only he could come back to Toussaint._

There was a knock on the door. Geralt fanned his hand over his journal to get the ink to dry quickly, then shut it and stuffed it under the pillow. "Come in," he said.

Regis entered with a cup of something that smelled decidedly non-herbal. Non-medicinal, anyway. "My latest batch."

Geralt took a sip. "Whew," he said appreciatively. "What's this one?"

"A secret," Regis said with a smile. "I think it's almost as good as the mandrake moonshine, even if I say so myself." He pulled out a bottle and pressed it into Geralt's hands. "Here you go. I see you've been packing up your things, so don't forget to pack this." He turned to leave.

"Regis," Geralt blurted out, "come with me."

But Regis had already left the room.

\--

Regis was seated on a stool next to the stove, grinding away at some aromatic spices with a pestle and mortar, when he heard footsteps. He looked up to find himself cornered by Dandelion and Priscilla. He put away the spices and stood up.

"Tea?" he said, putting the kettle on.

"Gladly," Priscilla said. "How are things with you?"

"Well, I thank you."

They sat down around the kitchen table. "Thank you for everything," Dandelion began.

"Don't start that again," Regis said.

"Not just for the thing you don't want us to thank you for, although we do heartily, sincerely, knee-scrapingly thank you. We do mean for everything. You're a guest here, but not only are you taking care of Geralt, you're helping out so much with the kitchen, cooking, making great drinks..."

"I try to make myself useful," Regis said modestly. "It's the least I can do while in your home. But if I'm overstepping some boundary—"

Dandelion waved his hand. "Far from it. Perish the thought. In fact, we don't want there to be a boundary. Well, how shall I get to the point? You know, Geralt has a home, I have a home, but as for you—"

"Dandelion," Priscilla said pointedly, seeing Regis's expression suddenly change, "why don't you go see how Geralt is doing?"

Even Dandelion understood that he was being asked to leave them alone, and so he did.

"He's right, you know," Regis said, standing up to make the tea. "Don't chide him later for speaking the truth."

"That's not something I do," Priscilla said. "But you have to admit he could have put it better."

"For some things, there's simply no better way to put them. It's simple: I squandered my chance at domestic bliss a long time ago. There's no reason I should encroach on anybody else's."

"You wouldn't be encroaching."

Regis set three mugs of tea on the table, having clearly forgotten that Dandelion had left. Regis cleared his throat and stared at his mug, rotating it slowly between his palms.

"We can just sit here and enjoy some peace and quiet now that Dandelion's left the kitchen," Priscilla said. "Or we can talk about something else."

"You're trying to be considerate of me, which I appreciate very much," Regis said, "Well, to change the subject, as you've suggested: you've had many opportunities to ask me about myself while I've been about the house these past weeks. Yet you haven't. You're still curious about me, though; I can tell."

"There's no use denying it," Priscilla said frankly.

"I can hardly blame you. When a vampire turns up on your doorstep one day, shortly before a witcher... What would you like to know?"

"You're asking me? Well," Priscilla said, pausing to turn her mug to distribute its heat better on her hands, "how about you tell me why you came to see Dandelion in the first place? It's a long trek to Novigrad from Vicovaro. He must be a dear friend."

She must have chosen this seemingly light question to be polite, but the question nettled Regis much more than he expected it would. He brought his mug up to his nose and inhaled deeply, feeling the warm moisture dampen his face. "Hm," was all he could muster for the moment.

Priscilla watched him expectantly.

"We did travel together with Geralt, along with a few other companions, when Geralt was looking for his adopted daughter. Now, that's a long story in itself..." he trailed off. Why, indeed, had he come to see Dandelion, who had left the hanza just before they'd gone to Stygga to finally rescue Ciri?

"Dandelion did tell me that story—eventually. Between me and you, he was not proud of how he behaved at the end of that journey," Priscilla said quietly. "So you don't have to worry about hurting his pride if you want to tell me about that time in your lives."

Regis closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair. "I'm trying to remember something someone said to us when we were about to leave Toussaint for Stygga. She said... she said that a sense of guilt, of atonement, was what had driven us onto the road with Geralt. Now, Dandelion was not there when she said that, and I can imagine that perhaps he was not driven by the same sense of guilt that some of us shared. But I certainly did share in it." He opened his eyes. "I don't really know what I'm trying to say."

"Say it anyway. Something will come out," Priscilla said with great conviction.

"I don't know what all this has to do with Dandelion anymore, really, but if you're willing to listen, I'll speak. I did reprehensible things in my youth," he said, "and I have tried to make up for them ever since. At the end of my journey with Geralt then, I, for all intents and purposes, died. One would think that would be the end of a journey of atonement."

"You're not dead," Priscilla said with a furrowed brow.

"Because I was, in layman's terms, revived, by a fellow higher vampire." Regis's voice grew very quiet. "Whom I then killed."

Priscilla unsuccessfully tried to hide her surprise.

Regis let out a very deep sigh. "I hate to justify myself, but I had to do it." He didn't sound convinced, even to his own ear. "He had lost control, caused a massacre, threatened many lives... Anyway, in doing what I had to do, I've taken on an even bigger debt, and I'm not sure there's anything I can do to pay that back this time."

"So," Priscilla said tentatively after a long pause, "the journey with Geralt and Dandelion and the rest... You came to Dandelion because he represents the _incomplete _penitential journey, which you seek to resume."

"Very neat; poetic, even. I like that interpretation, poetess," Regis said with a sad smile. "Unfortunately, I haven't yet died this time, but instead I've killed again."

"In the name of justice," Priscilla said with conviction. "That makes all the difference."

"Does it?" Regis put his mug down on the table.

"It does," Priscilla said simply. She could have said a lot more: about how she was no longer afraid, about how innocent victims were avenged, about how future disaster was averted; but she did not. "You're not acting in your own interests. Your sword is not your own. It's the sword of justice."

Regis blinked, stunned for a moment. He recovered quickly and smiled another sad smile. "If I'm to wield it," he said with a faraway look in his eyes, "I can't wield it blindly."

Priscilla looked over her shoulder to see if Regis was speaking to someone else.

His eyes snapped back to her, suddenly alert. "It's been a beautiful dream, Priscilla, and I thank you and Dandelion for it, but I must wake up to find what I'm looking for."

\--

_Dandelion came in all upset this morning and asked me what I'd said to Regis to make him leave suddenly in the middle of the night. I asked him what _he'd_ said. Then we asked Priscilla what she'd said. And she told us what Regis had said. What the hell does that vampire dream about? Where the hell has he gone this time?_

\--

Regis lay awake in some godforsaken cave between Novigrad and Vicovaro, thinking of Geralt holding Aerondight, thinking of Geralt's catlike eyes, eyes that saw clearly in the dark.

\--

The blindfold has found its way into my left hand. I see Themis's back. Her hand holding the scales is outstretched from her body and the mysterious bluish glow sketches the outline of her figure in the dark. We are alone together this time. But she is still waiting for me.

Time passes, or perhaps no time at all passes. I speak. "I don't want the blindfold. What I need are the scales."

"Why?"

I shrug, not from indifference, but from discomfort. My sword hand has grown tired. "How else can I know what I'm doing is just?"

The scales quiver in a breeze that, this time, I can't feel. Themis hasn't moved, and she doesn't turn around when she answers: "It is not for you to hold the scales."

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel is currently being outlined. I'm not going to leave Regis on the road between Novigrad and Vicovaro!


End file.
